Winthrop High School - Winthrop Winner Yearbook (Winthrop, ME)

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WINTHROP HIGH SCHOOL 17 If at first you don't succeed-! Young lady, are you aware of the fact that I received a S10 raise today? How's that for the climbing architect? Mr. San- derson unbent enough today to give me credit for originality and promise in ideas-now will you marry me ? Gee, that's swell! sparkled Sylvia. No, sighed Sylvia, But let's celebrate the raise. . . The movie-su, planned Gary. A big spread afterwards at the snootiest res- taurant in town-then we'll look in on Strand Pavilion. And then me stumbling into the house in the shady hours beyond mid- night, Waking Mrs. Lyn's baby, and old Mrs. Greeley across the road peeking out the window to see if you kiss me good-night? Sir-this is the country! He acknowledged the fact with a def- inite scowl. Will a ride and picnic sup- per be within the limits of country eti- quette? Say, a drive over to Andover? Gary, faltered Sir Galahad. An- dover is forty-three miles away. Forty-three miles, in this car? He looked keenly into her eyes. Okay, surrendered Sir Galahad, not too unhappily. A cool drive, hunger-tempting sand- wiches, and' Gary's eighty-ninth pro- posal were still on Sylvia's mind the next day as she pushed a second grade reader unwillingly through the story of the three goats who marched across the bridge. It was gray and desolate and very Aprilish. It was raining. It rained through noon hour and kiddies with muddy feet tracked across the floor and left wet mittens under the stove. It was raining when Garv's road- ster swung into the yard for her that afternoon, top up. It rained all night and Sylvia. tossing on a feather bed, heard Mrs. Lyn walking the iioor with Lyn, Jr., who had the croup. Wondered how her mother was getting along in town- After a dismal night Sylvia heard the rain pelting against the roof - Friday the 13th. Looking out, Sylvia saw that the yard was washed into a queer clay mud-puddle. H No school. Sylvia wandered around the house that morning, picked up a book, laid it down. Mr. Lyn came in from the chores, his nondescript slicker making him look wetter than ever. Rainin' calves and pitchforks! he grumbled, And the creek's risin', fast. Sylvia went to the window and a queer pang struck her as she looked down the pasture slope at the ugly swol- len waters of the stream. Why, the water is level with the bridge I she exclaimed. Yeah, I know, said Lyn. That was all anyone said. Saturday the bridge went out-Sylvia watched it go, a helpless splintered thing in the churning waters. the only link to the World and Gary. The waters now were up to the pasture gates. No- body needed to ask any questions then -everybody knew. Sylvia thought, If Gary were only here! At noon she tried to call her mother. The line was down, said the local operator, between there and town. Returning from a survey, Lyn re- ported that-the old sheep shed below the pasture had been destroyed, was float- ing downstream. Pa, said Mrs. Lyn, tremulously, We ought to get out of here. Lyn avoided her eyes. On this knoll -we should be safe enough. We should be safe enough, thought Sylvia, fighting down that queer sense of panic. If onlv there were a radio! She ran the old phonograph all after- noon, listening to the same cracked rec- ords, over and over . . . Anything to shut out the noise of pouring rain, of pouring creek waters! Mrs. Lyn called the McBerrys who lived down in the low swampy region of the valley, the only family in immediate danger. We're swamped, came Mrs. Mc- Berry's hysterical voice over the wire. Cut off. There's three feet of water in the cellar. We'l1 be afloat in a few hours. The-the food's given out. Dad tried to get us out in the fiivver, but the motor flooded before we had gone ten feet.

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16 WIINTHROP WINNER to hold back the surging emotions of nations? Will the Ethiopian-Italo war come to an end before it becomes a world war? No one can be sure. Ruth A. Knowlton, '39 Foreword During the recent vacation, which we enjoyed in March, about the time of the great flood disaster, I had the doubtful pleasure of being transported by boat across the strong currents of Cobbossee stream, because the bridge was expect- ed to go any minute, and my home hap- pened to be on the other side. A threat- ening, unfamiliar body of water, swol- len to twice its normal width, and per- haps ten times its normal current, the Cobbossee looked more like a river than a stream at the time. The bridge did go sometime during that night, and the next day we went down to take a look at the remains. I couldn't believe that I had ever taken a dive off the flimsy-looking structure that floated aimlessly around several hundred yards downstream. Several large boulders had failed to hold the bridge, and still lay forlornly on the raft-like platform, like the outcast souls of the Foreign Legion, or prisoners on their way to Devil's Island. That afternoon I paid a visit to the Deestrick Skule which I had attended during my last years in grammar school. Though familiar, the queer, double-seated desks looked and felt smaller and more scarred than ever, the portrait of George Washington seemed a little more austere. But of course it all brought back the usual memories of kid pranks, kid friends. Anyway it was the Hood itself, still so fresh in everybody's mind as a period of suspense and horror and catastrophe, and the quaint little one-room school- house which inspired my story. I dedi- cate it to them both. Flood Versus Romance It was March in the solitary school- house on the flat. Sylvia Marston's blue pencil hustled unerringly through the stack of scrawly arithmetic papers on her desk, then she tucked them into the top drawer. Looking up, she met the stern gaze of The Father of our Coun- try from the painting on the wall be- hind rows of tiny scarred desks, and her gray eyes sparkled. March-and nearly spring. Georgie! Springing up, she whirled across the floor in a twirling dance that would have shocked the smallest of her pupils. But school was out, the straggling last of her brood had already disappeared beyond the wood-crested slope, with a Hash of swinging lard dinner-pail. Sound was magnified in the empty, one- floorg a squirrel scolding just outside the window from the retreats of an old, tired oak, from the swamplands below the twittering of early spring birds- then the distant purr of a powerful mo- tor. Hearing, Sylvia turned' her back on the disapproving gaze of Georgie, pat- ted powder onto a pert nose, ran a comb through her red-gold bob, slipped into a new, dashing swagger coat, grabbed up her brief-case, fumbled for the key on its customary nail beside the water- pail, and was locking the Ucantanker- ous old door when a low, blue-gray roadster swung into the yard. Ahoyl called a cheerful masculine voice. Ahoy, Sir Galahad. Am I late again '? The name made her smile. He had insisted upon calling her that since she had insisted upon doing the heroic thing, coming out here in the country to teach so that she could take care of herself and sickly mother, without do- ing the easy thing by marrying him. Something proud and independent in Sylvia revolted against dependence, even upon Gary West. Driving down the rough road, sun- light did bewitching things to Sylvia's tawny locks, etched Gary's nice profile in gold. Sylvia, will you marry me? No, she said. He managed a fairly successful laugh.

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is WINTHROP WINNER We'll be drowned, like rats! My God, what are we going to do ? Keep up your courage, snapped Mrs. Lyn: This can't last much longer. When Pa Lyn learned the substance of their conversation, he squared his shoulders. We can't let those kiddies starve, he said. Pa, what are we goin' to do ? 'Tm goin' to take some supplies down to 'em. I'll haul the rowboat down to the edge of the swamp with the team, then I'll row in. I'll leave the small boat for you - in case anything should hap- pen . . . 'Tm afraid- , murmured his wife. Shucks! It's a cinch. There won't be any current down there. If an old sailor like me can't handle a rowboat he ought to be in Davy J ones' locker. From the window a forlorn family, plus Sylvia, watched him start out with the boatful of provisions. The horses cringed against the wind and iiattened their ears, but the rugged figure in the wagon seat sat erect and sturdy, as he might have stood on the deck of a schooner in the old days, battling against a fierce nor'easter. He knew what faced him, through the driving sleetg treacherous, swirling iiood wa- ters, falling trees, perhaps death. He waved back cheerily at the group in the farmhouse window, and the wagon dipped down the knoll, out of view . . . It seemed to the silent group left be- hind that the rain and wind were pound- ing at the house, reaching at them with hungry, cold fingers. Mrs. Lyn tried the phone, after a while. He must have reached McBerry's by now! But only a queer humming sound greeted her ears. The line was dead! Most of the time Sylvia stood by the windows, watching those menacing gray waters, rising . . . The hands of the clock marched steadily onward. Darkness crept up, and with it a thunder storm. As though the Storm Gods were not sat- isfied with what they had already ac- complished. Lightning, thunder, and still that interminable rain. Then the baby began to cough. Little hacking coughs at first, then great, hoarse, convulsive ones. His face sud- denly grew purpleg he tossed in his crib. It's that croup, said Mrs. Lyn. Syl- via hung over the crib, frightened and inefficient, while the baby's mother heated grease on the stove, trickled it way back in the baby's throat. Watch- ing her, Sylvia decided that for a college graduate, there were a number of things she didn't know. But Junior didn't seem to grow bet- ter. He kicked and thrashed and his face was still that ghastly hue. Sylvia realized that Mrs. Lyn was trembling. He needs a doctor, quick! she gasped. If Doc Gray were only here. Kind old Doc Gray, only a half-mile away, but separated from them by that awful expanse of water! There are times when we make decisions like that. In a split second Sylvia had made hers. I'll get the doctor, she said. If only-someone-could, choked the mother. Sylvia cast a single glance at the piti- ful, twisted baby face. Running up- stairs, she put on her raincoat and over- shoes, pulled an old felt hat down over her coppery hair. Keep up your courage, she said to Mrs. Lyn. God bless you, my dear, sobbed the woman. Then the door was closed behind her, shutting her out in the rain and thunder and lightning. She found the other row- boat, with oars, in the boathouse, dragged it into the water. Then on the bank, looking across the awful expanse of the water, her cour- age faltered. A swell Sir Galahad you are! she scoffed herself, through chattering teeth. Could a girl manage a boat across that fury-ridden sea. alone, at night? Remembering the baby, she de- cided that a girl could, if she had to. Jumping into the boat. she thrust the oars into the locks-shoved away. She was scarcely away before she felt the tug of the black current, like a mon-